No More Blue Skied Days
by Jay Gee Three
Summary: Bladerunner 1; the book of the film of the book - Do Androids Dream? The film is so different from the original novel, so this is a novelisation of the film. The Tyrell Corporation was not the first to develop robotics, but it became the largest corporation at that time. Rising stratospherically, and crashing just as suddenly. This story is intended to show you how...


This is intended as a novelisation of the film, however, I have altered most of the exact dialogue, to keep it within the intended meaning in the film, but, because of the usual copyright issues, sufficiently different from the exact wording of the film. Some other plot events have been added, and subtracted.

No More Blue Skied Days

PROLOGUE

It was The Tyrell Corporation that developed the state-of-the-art in robotics into the NeXus stage - it is a type of android that is virtually identical to a human, perhaps for that reason they're better known by the more derogatory expression - a skin.

The Tyrell Corporation was not the first to develop robotics, but it became the largest corporation at that time. Rising stratospherically, and crashing just as suddenly. This story is intended to show you how. Perhaps it may act as a cautionary tale. It was because of the simulation of human life that they achieved, and they developed the NeXus generation at a time that it was needed by the human race. In their, or should I say, in _our_ development off-Earth. Like evolution itself, the evolution of knowledge in this case, The Tyrell Corporation and the NeXus adapted and survived, and superseded previous forms.

When Tyrell developed their NeXus they made something that was markedly superior to all the previous generations, being at least equal, if not superior, to the bio-designers who devised them. It was the much talked-about, much hoped for (by some), much feared (by others), 'cross-over', the big X in the middle of their name was an indication of this point being reached, it was the point where the Reps surpassed humans, and could go onward and design themselves, design their own successors.

They were made primarily for off-Earth use, as labourers, in the ever hazardous task of resource exploitation of 'hard rock', of the planets, moons, and meteors of the solar system. But they were also assigned other roles too, including security, combat auxilliaries, and combat primaries. You would think there was a massive amount of solar system to go round, but the costs of capturing, and redirecting the relatively small, hard, but very valuable, rocks - and settling them in earth orbit in readiness for stripping them - were so great in the initial investment stage, that there was a territorial war going on. Largely because off-Earth law simply hadn't caught up with off-Earth events.

In time, there was a mutiny by a NeXus combat group on a colony and they were declared illegal on-Earth, as it is in the Heavens. That didn't stop them trying to get to Earth though. When they came here they were known as Replicants, because they were so close in their appearance to humans that they were, practically, replicas.

It was deemed necessary to set up squads to investigate and detect them when they did come to Earth; these squad members became known as blade runners, largely because of the dangers they undertook to take the Replicants on; it was as though they were running along something as narrow as a knife blade, there was no room for error. Alongside them developed the business of freelance bounty hunters who competed with the blade runners. Blade runner or bounty-hunter, they're all licensed and monitored, to shoot-to-kill any Replicants found trespassing here.

This was never known as execution, or termination, or assassination, nor was it known as murder - after all, you can't murder what isn't _really_ alive. It went by the very innocuous euphimism of - retirement.

I

When night fell - and it started to darken from mid-afternoon on most days at any time of the year - the street lights and the lights in homes and offices stretched all the way to the horizon, or, at least, as far as the hills that hemmed the city in. Within this thin spread of lights there were, all around, brighter clusters of lights which shone like mini galaxies where the multiple centres of this vast broadly spread city had formed.

But there were spaces between the spread of these lights. The blackness inbetween was the place where, what had once been, the sprawling cities and suburbs of San Francisco and Oakland and Paulo Alto. These had shrunk down to these gatherings of peoples in the semi-devastated remains of the post-World War Four world, now known simply as WarFour.

Between these clusters of lights flew other lights, like meteors burning up in the atmosphere. These were likewise small and fast moving. The air-hazard lights on the occasional heli-car and sky-taxi as they moved from one of these clusters to another.

Amongst these air-bourne craft was a police vehicle, its red and blue lights shone in a steady state on the vehicles roof and underside, indicating it was not on an emergency flight. It was occupied by Dave Holden and in the semi-darkness of mid-afternoon, it was just after 4pm, he read by an in-cabin light. He was a bounty hunter, a Freelancer. That meant most of his work was done for the law enforcement agencies; the police, the courts, the D.A. - hence the ride in the police heli-car - but he also did other private-enterprise work. And that included android hunting. Androids would sometimes escape to Earth, moreso just lately. When they did so they were commonly known as Replicants.

On this occasion Holden was working for the SFPD, San Francisco Police Department. As he read the details in the incident report he wondered if there would come a day when THEY, the Replicants, would be testing THEM, the humans. He shuddered. Moreso, since the human treatment of the Replicants had been, over the past decade, so murderous - there was no other way of putting it. And especially so with the advent of the NeXus generations.

Once, there had been no need for blade runners. Before the Replicants, there were androids, true, but they had all been simple enough. They always followed the orders of their human owners-masters. For the more squeamish owners, and there were many of them, they never referred to themselves as owners, let alone as masters, they thought of themselves as the 'sponser' of these human replicas.

Dave Holden looked around, scanning the horizon. Off to his left he saw the fire plumes bursting and burning-off the excess gases from the San Francisco Aviation-Fuel Companies refinery. It was their twenty-fours a day work that kept him as one of the relatively few vehicles still in the air. But the company had revealed they were cutting back their work hours to only eighteen hours a day, four days of the week. The oil to refine was becoming ever scarcer.

He was travelling to The Tyrell Corporations large pyramidial head office up in the hills around Paulo Alto for the same reason that he had been making this trip for the past two years, so the view was anything but unfamiliar. He was making his way to Tyrell's yet again. Another employee was suspected of being a NeXus-Five infiltrator, and Don Holder was to administer the Altered Scale Voight-Kampff Empathic Test.

His heli-car crested the black unpopulated blankness of the hill and immediately behind, in the valley, stood the large well-lit pyramidial head office of The Tyrell Corporations.

II

Part of the test protocol was to administer the test on a suspect subject as part of a group. The preferable number was a group of five or more but it was acceptable to use only three.

In this respect it worked a little like a police line-up for witnesses to identify a suspect, but that was where the similarity ended. The Voight-Kampf test was a complex and sophisticated method based on empathic response to identify the imposter in the group. Unlike a police line-up, it was a blind test, the tester didn't know who the suspect was, but had to identify it from their interpretation of the test results.

A space had been set-up in a small corporate-grey cubicle in a room full of small corporate-grey cubicles. They had been cleared to allow the testing process, the interviews, to take place away from the hub-bub of the usual working day.

Don Holden had already completed one test on a subject named Joe Handy. As the testee left the cubicle Holden completed a few notes on the first testee on his pad and picked up his mug of, now tepid, synthetic-coffee and took a sip. He gave a bitter little grimace as he did so. He could still remember when coffee was the genuine article, not just a warm liquid with a coffee-flavour added. He completed his notes. He was content with his initial analysis. The first of the group of testees was a 'blank', he was not the suspect. He checked the time and saw that it had taken less than fifteen minutes to ascertain this.

What little light there had been in the sky in mid-afternoon had faded to a feint glow over the hillside. The remaining light illuminated the constant fine, low-level radioactive dust that hung in the air, regardless of the air-conditioning system.

This dust was always drifiting in the air outdoors. The only respite from the dust was when it rained. It rained a lot more than it used to in the pre-war days. And when it rained it rained much more heavily. The Earth's temperature had increased, that had reduced the ice floes by about 25%, there was more moisture in the atmosphere, which adhered to the masses of dust particles thrown up in the detonations in the mid-layers of the atmosphere, which all caused - rain. It couldn't last though, there was an expectation that all the clouds of moisture and the dust would cause the surface of the planet to cool sharply, there was more talk of another new ice-age.

For the moment though the rain suppressed the floating dust - and also brought it down to ground level. But when the rain stopped and it dried there were always islands of coagulated dust in the streets, like islands in dried up desert riverbeds. The constant rains aided the post-WarFour clean-up of the atmosphere. When the dust had fallen with the rain and it dried up into these islands of dust, it was the city's responsibility to collect it, and dump it in an insulated truck and take it to be dumped in deep pits that ringed the city several miles out. It also meant that there was a small added number of people that died of radiation poisoning each year.

Dave Holden stood up and took a few paces back and forth in the small space within the work cubicle. He stretched his back reflexively and took another sip from the mug. Then drank down the remains. He looked at the dark brown undissovled powery dregs at the bottom of the mug, swilled them around once, and set the mug down on the desk. He sat and leant toward the I.C. console to ask for the next testee to be sent in.

The ceiling-fans spun slowly, moving the dust about, rather than clearing it.

The apparatus looked simple enough but it did what was required. It directed a broad cross-beam of lights into the suspects eye. It measured the response time of the reflexive movements in the eye muscles. Test subjects were given a series of hypothetical situations, and their reaction was represented on a series of gauges, a screen, and by a graphical representation. What was a reflexive action in humans was delayed, almost imperceptably, in the Replicants. A designed-in feature to allow identification. He knew he was looking for a late generation NeXus. From this process it could be deduced, by an experienced tester, if the subject was a Replicant. In this case he was looking for a NeXus-Five, in the form of a white male.

The next testee arrived at the cubicle. Don Holden stood up again and shook hands with the subject, he introduced himself and checked that he was speaking to Leon Polokov. Polokov pricked Holden's interest straightaway. He had a large build. Minaturisation had affected the build of the Replicants, but not so much that they were actually miniature. They were all slightly larger than average. Polokov was definitely larger than average. Holden hoped that the rest of the test group would be a bit larger than the first of this group. Just to make the testing process more interesting. Joe Handy had been slightly smaller than average and it was highly improbable that his body shape could contain the muscle pack required for off-Earth labour.

Polokov had opened the top half of the light disposable paper overalls that the clean-room researchers wore over their inner cover-alls. Holden sat and lit a cigarette and let the smoke flow slowly out of his lungs and he watched it as it rose in the air. Cigarettes were too much of a luxury to offer around to anyone but the closest, intimate friends.

'Please take a seat, Mr Polokov,' he said gesturing at the high-backed chair with the Tyrell logo embossed in the plastic back. Polokov started to sit down in a chair next to him and Holden indicated that he had to sit on the opposite side of the table. When he had sat down Don Holden aligned the apparatus to Polokov's height, so that the light beam would shine directly into his eye on a horizontal course. Polokov eyed the testing equipment with apprehension.

'This is a test? I didn't know. I get a bit nervy taking tests,' Polokov said as he shifted in the chair.

'There's no need to. Just relax,' Holden said to reassure him. Most of the people in the test groups said something similiar, so he knew he was offering false assurance in some cases. He added, a little more sharply, ''And I need you to sit quite still. But relaxed while I get this focused on your pupil.'

'I've just had a test, when I joined Tyrell. Why do they need to do another one so...'

Don Holden interrupted him, 'This isn't a test for Tyrell. It isn't anything to do with the company, Mr Polokov. This is a random test, you must have heard of them, for drug and alcohol misuse. The reaction time is important, so I need you to listen carefully and respond as soon as possible.'

'OK,' said Polokov. 'I'm sure I can do that, as long as the questions are easy enough.'

'It's a test, not a quiz. Answer as you feel...'

Holden drew another lungful of smoke from his cigarette before he started the test, breathed it out of his lungs and watched the smoke spiral up to the ceiling. He glanced through the pre-set questions that were printed on individual cards, but started by checking Polokov's home address. Started with something simple to answer truthfully, as though it were an old-style lie detector test.

Polokov confirmed the address, then asked, 'Have we started?'

'Just about to,' said Holden.

'It's not much to look at.'

'What?' asked Holden.

'My place. It ain't nothin' fancy. It's just a temporary place that I'm staying in. Well, more like a single room, really. I'm between places more permanent.' Holden looked across at Polokov, as though to judge whether it was worth saying anything in reply. He ignored it. Instead he started to put a scenario to him.

'I want you to think of being out in a desert. The sand is burning your feet...'

'We've started?' asked Polokov. He spoke in a lazy drawl.

'Yes. I need you to listen carefully.' He repeated the introduction to the scenario, 'You look at your feet and you see a...'

Polokov interrupted again, 'Is there any particular desert that I'm supposed to be in?'

Holden stopped and looked at the test subject, 'Huh?' he said, but otherwise wordlessly.

'The desert? Which one is it?'

'It hardly matters. There's no need to think about it literally.'

'But why am I there?'

'That doesn't matter either. You might feel bored, or feel the need to be by yourself. Let's just say you'd come in on a shuttle from off-Earth and wanted to be alone for a change, away from any kind of crowds,' Holden said in an amiable manner. He continued, 'You look at your feet, and you see a tortoise.'

'What is that?'

'You don't know what a tortoise is?'

Polokov shook his head and shifted in the chair again.

'Please sit still,' said Holden. 'You'd know a turtle though?'

Polokov nodded his head.

'They're a lot the same, but smaller.'

'Then why is it called a tortoise, and not a turtle?'

Holden drew on his cigarette again and put it down so that it rested on the lip of an ashtray.

'Alright. They're not exactly the same. In the same way that a tree is a tree, but there are different species and all have different names. There aren't many tortoises left now, anyway. OK?' He glanced across at Polokov. Polokov nodded. Holden noticed that his expression was sullen. He continued again with the test scenario, 'You bend down and you turn it over, so it is lying on its back.'

'Why would I do that?' Polokov asked.

'That is the point of the question...'

Polokov seemed to ignore the answer and asked another question of his own instead, 'That's just cruel. Who would come up with a question like that? Was it you, Mr Holden?'

Holden, in turn, ignored Polokov's interruption. 'It is now lying on its back, and it's underside is baking. You can see how it's beating its legs around, trying to turn back over. But it... can't. It needs you to help it.' Don Holden was giving a text-book rendition of the question, keeping the sentences short. Terse. Adding a little inflection to his voice. 'Why aren't you helping? You only have to stoop down again and turn it right side up. That's all. But you're not doing that. Why?'

'Why wouldn't I help it?' Polokov said, agitation showing in his voice-print and face. He seemed to be nervously rubbing the uppers of his thighs under the table. But Holden was watching the image of his eye, the graphic read-out revealed a time-lapse in his empathic response. There was a time-lapse, but not as long as it ought to be, not for any Replicant he had ever encountered before. He pressed the point. 'As far as I can see you're still not helping,' he repeated. 'Why, Leon? Why?'

The testing apparatus gave a steady beeping sound.

Polokov sat silently, he broke eye contact for a moment before looking back at Holden. Polokov wasn't relaxed in his posture. He seemed genuinely agitated at hearing the scenario. As though he were being accused.

Holden picked up his cigarette again and drew shortly on it and looked across the table at Polokov. He adopted a friendly manner. 'Since you ask, the questions are devised by others. I just read them, and read the response gauges. This is a test designed to provoke a response.' He paused. 'That is, an _emotional_ response.' Holden gave a little nod toward the apparatus shining the light into his eye.

Polokov still looked ill at ease, he leaned forward in the chair.

'Shall we go on?' said Holden.

The test subject gave a very slight nod.

'I would like you to name only the best characteristics of...' Dan Holder shuffled the last question-card to the bottom of the pack and read the next card. 'Your mother.'

Polokov looked quizzical.

Holder prompted him. 'Your mother. Tell me about her,' he said, as he made a quick note on the screen about the change of scenario card. He was still looking at what he was writing as Polokov said, 'Let me tell you about my mother...' Holden noted the hardening tone of the subject's voice and glanced up from the screen, as Polokov moved his arm swiftly, uncannily, inhumanly, swiftly, and shot Holden from under the table.

Holden's swivel chair span round at the force of the impact and he slumped against the back wall. Polokov stood up and fired three more times through the back of the chair. The impacts pushed Holden off the chair and he lay in an ungainly heap, seemingly lifeless, against the wall.

Leon pressed the gun back down into his waistband, pulled his paper overalls up to conceal it. He walked around to the side of the table where Don Holden was slumped against the wall.

'Did I pass the test?' Polokov asked sarcastically as he walked past his sprawled body and left the room at a fast walking pace.

III

The automated novelty arachnoid-shaped advertising blimp drifted overhead, the low-power motors purred quietly like a happy cat as it navigated its pre-programmed path through the high towers of the New San Francisco city centre that had been built to the south side of the old Candlestick Park. A pre-recorded voice boomed down on the crowded streets below. It cycled through its programme of adverts and advertorial.

First, it was Jimmy Bream's Synthetic Sour Mash Bourbon, complete with equally synthetic pictures of people in eighteenth century dress in the streets of the Old Quarter of New Orleans. Long since disappeared under water. Although the city of New San Francisco did have its own re-creation of, and recreational, version of Bourbon Street.

A short advert encouraging the adoption of the Cyber-dime currency came on followed immediately by another for the competing system, Way-2-Pay.

Next, was an a piece of advertorial for one of the specialist artificial animal and pet manufacturers, Mr Macawber's Menagerie. More smiling faces. Various children were being presented with kittens and puppies, lambs and ponies, a baby seal or a penguin. And adults were thrilled to recieve a parrot, an artificial owl, even a boa constrictor that immediately wound its way around its new owner. He knew straightaway, when he had first seen this advertorial, that each the adults in it were MX5s, proving his contention that most people couldn't tell the difference. It ran for ten minutes.

Then there was an infommercial for the Tyrell Corporation. Their, otherwise, reclusive founder-genius Doctor Tyrell propounded on the direction of the next generation of humanoid-androids.

'Try getting them to stop killing people,' Deckard thought to himself.

By the time the blimp was over Korea Town, it was broadcasting the off-world colonies information promo, as though all the people who wanted to leave Earth hadn't already left for the planetary colonies - and most of the people still on Earth would never pass the test to leave now anyway. But still, it boomed out, regardless. A voice filled with bright optimism.

'Emmigrate to a bright world. Live off-world. In a sun-drenched land of constant possibilities. A land of new adventure. There is no better place to start than Mars-One to acclimatise. Discover new lands, meet new people. Think of it. Can you imagine it? You, and your new friendship groups, and with a Tyrell NeXus too. Or another one of your own choice. For an extra charge, perhaps try a bespoke option...'

It was as if it was intended to taunt, and cause resentment, to the remaining Earth-bound population.

As it passed directly overhead Deckard looked up and saw, on each side of the blimp, two large screens showing smiling people in clean clothes in bright off-world colony streets. Deckard knew for a _fact_ that the streets on the mining colonies, at least, might have looked like that when they were first built, but they were so clogged with rock-dust that they didn't look anything like that now. They were all upside down from where he was viewing them from. 'The world turned upside down', thought Deckard, that just about captures it.

It drifted off behind the 'Sunrise Tower', he filled in the fading sound of the infommercial's message that had bored itself into his mind through constant repetition. 'The off-Earth subsidy is never closed. Get in touch with your local office, toll-free, to find out if you qualify. Or drop into your local branch office.' Deckard pictured the local branch office in his mind's eye. It was a dust covered long-since closed, fire-bombed shell with metal sheets welded to the frontage.

Rick Deckard was in Korea Town for lunch. Nothing fancy. Korea Town was one of the various areas of San Francisco that had long since become a part of Asia. The city had been colonised by people from the Western Pacific. Japan, Korea and Vietnam had all come off especially badly in the war. All their major cities had been devastated. San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, Seattle, Anchorage and Vancouver had all become something like permanent refugee camps since national borders had, after the last War, ceased being pourous and had largely dissolved. There was always talk of repatriation - it was over twenty years since the end of the war, and those countries weren't going to rebuild themselves - but nothing much had come of it.

It was raining. As it had been, constantly, for the past three days. People, mostly Koreans and Japanese - unlike most people Deckard could tell the difference from their appearance - moved about the neon razzled street as he awaited his food order from the pavement cafe over the road. The pedestrians walked along the sidewalk in left and right streams, many of them holding the neon-stalked umbrellas that were especially useful when you turned off the main thoroughfares into the underlit side streets. They glowed in cool-blues or pastel pinks. A couple of young women dressed as geisha's held a rose-blossom coloured neon-umbrella between them and half-talked, half-giggled to each other as they passed Deckard.

It was an old pre-Continental War area, with a lot of narrow streets crammed together. So this part of town was always busy. Deckard liked that. Too many parts of San Francisco were deserted, or seemed to be. It felt good to be in this crush of humanity, that was why he always came down here to eat.

He was one of the people who still read the hardcopy, the paper, version of the SF Chronicle, so he read his copy while he waited for his order. He leant against a brightly lit shop front selling a mixture of the latest electronic goods imported from off-world, but mainly it was the second-hand, third-hand, forth-hand and modified goods that were made on-Earth, local producers improvising low-cost alternatives from spares, refurbished and recovered components.

There was a news story about a shooting at The Tyrell Corporation that had caught Deckard's eye. He had noticed that there had been several shootings at their offices in the past year. He suspected that it was a Replicant, but he wasn't looking to tangle with them ever again, not since he had walked away from being a bladerunner ten months ago. He wasn't missing it.

Zui-Lee ran the cafe on the opposite side of the street, he was an old, old Japanese man - who looked as old as time itself. He had made up Deckard's order and he called him over; his order was ready. One useful function that newspapers served that gadgets didn't was they made good substitutes for an umbrella when they weren't being read. He closed the paper, put it over his head and dashed into the street. A car horn sounded and he looked round to see the crowd in the road parting quickly a car fashioned after an old 1960s Edsel model emerged quickly through the crowd. It just missed Deckard. 'Asshole,' he muttered under his breath.

At the cafe he had ordered dim sum, chilli noodle soup and prawns (it was actually fish shavings and discards reconstituted and shaped into prawn shapes with an artificial prawn flavouring. Real prawns cost a fortune, as most real things did). He picked a couple of chopsticks out of the dispenser and sat down. He crossed and recrossed the chopsticks, as two sword-fencers would do with their swords. Zui-Lee passed the bowl to him and he quickly speared a dim sum and started to eat. Food was scant and scarce, and expensive. Everything was expensive. Except accomodation. San Francisco, as many of the cities that had partially survived the War, was a place of both high-technology and decay. Despite all the high-technology, most gadgets and instruments and tools were left-overs from before the last war. Some were gaffa-jobs, creations made from yesterdays latest technology and were today's latest discards. Some people had the best gadgets from the off-world auto-manufacturies and made a point of being amongst the first that acquired them, but most people simply got by with what they could find.

Deckard ate. Swilling the noodles around the bowl and catching them in his chopsticks and shovelling them into his mouth, the chilli flavouring stung. He liked his chilli noodles hot, and these were hot. He smiled across at Zui-Lee, and with his mouth still full, murmured, 'Good, good,' and nodded again at Zui-Lee. Zui-Lee smiled his old, old smile back at him.

Deckard didn't eat his food as fast as possible, as so many people did nowadays. As though it might be stolen if he didn't eat faster - and that happened. People were mugged for food. Whatever is valuable is worth stealing. But Deckard had a kind of presence that many people wouldn't want to tangle with.

Although not old, his face showed, more than most, the years of harsh experience. Not just the post-War hardships. But his WarFour service, and also something of his police service; before he had turned to freelancing, serving outstanding warrants. With auto I.D., it was so much simpler than it had been. It didn't pay so well, but there was a much lower chance of being killed. He reckoned he had done his part in the hopeless task of stemming the flow of slayings and slaughter that people perpetrated on each other at any time. Especially in a time of constant hardship lived against a background of devastation and decay. For some, the knowledge, or just the suspicion, that among all this there were those who lived amongst them, the off-world rejectees mostly who had nonetheless accumulated dizzying wealth, caused them to reach for their gun and hunt them.

In truth, there was much more slaughter in San Francisco in a typical year than there had been in the three years of the 'Sparticus' rebellion. But people aren't Replicants, and there is still some slim expectation of a fair trial. Human pride, desire, jealousy, greed, acquisitiveness, venality can't be eradicated by a simple Declaration of Illegality.

These wealthy people made their money, as of old. Hoping to bribe their way off Earth, or so Deckard presumed. He knew that every so often one of the big old houses in the hills would become vacant, so it must be working. It was these people that the banditti wanted to get at, but they employed small armies of personal security. The only way to get at them was to band together into ever larger groups of banditti, so you could at least match the private security in numbers. Once that happened the private security upped their fire-power in turn. San Francisco had its own localised arms-race going on and Deckard had been supposed to police it. Single-handedly, as it had sometimes seemed to him. Until he quit.

Even amongst the dizzying wealthy there were those who were among the many leftovers who hadn't passed the test to get to off-Earth. Everyone living off-Earth had to justify the oxygen supply they were using up. You had to justify the oxygen you breathed so the test was especially stringent. If you can't pass the test, you can't leave. Sometimes it was just easier to stay on-Earth. Of the entire re-burgeoning Earth-based population - that was close to the pre-War global figure of eleven billion - there was only a little under half-a-million living off-Earth.

He heard the sound of a police heli-car above and behind him. He still had an instinct to check his scanner for information on their call-out but he ignored it. He opened up his newspaper and started reading it again as he speared a dim sum and continued eating. He had been eating and reading for a few minutes when he felt a tap on his shoulder and he glanced around at the unwelcome sight of a uniformed officer to his right.

'You have to come with me.'

Deckard ignored him and supped at his noodle bowl. He felt another shove in his back.

'I said. You have to come with me.'

'I heard. You can see I'm eating. Have you never heard the saying about never getting between a man and his meal. Besides, you can't arrest me, I'm SFPD,' Deckard said in a sardonic manner. Police were always being arrested for bribery, off-the-books murders, private enterprise political and industrial assassinations. Deckard glanced back at the uniform and added, facetiously, 'Besides, you're not my type.'

'You used to be SFPD, but not any more,' the uniform said.

At his left shoulder came another voice. This one spoke in a strange patois of broken, smashed-up languages that some people had adopted, since so many people lived beyond their own borders.

'Monsieur Deckard, Herr Bryant wants vous. Come, avec mois.'

He looked round and saw the pock-marked face of Gaff still with the pencil moustache that was current a few years back, a fashion retread from some old period. Deckard knew him by sight but didn't know much about him. He had arrived from LA just before Deckard had quit the SFPD. He was their best man but had been transferred to San Francisco since it became clear the NeXus that arrived on Earth were heading straight for The Corporation. Deckard looked down and saw that he was leaning on a cane with a silver-coloured dragon head tip. He didn't have that six months ago, thought Deckard.

'Huh?'

'Lo-fa. You're wanted. _You're needed._ ' The tone was insistent.

'Yeah, yeah.' Deckard said. 'Well. Since you're asking nicely.' He indicated over at Zui-Lee that he wanted a cardboard carton to put the remains of his meal into. The uniform got hold of his elbow.

'C'mon, lets move!' he said.

'I'm coming,' Deckard replied as he poured the contents of the bowl into the carton and tipped the uneaten prawn and dim sum into it as well. He stood up and looked at the uniform and at Gaff.

'So, what is it that Bryant wants that you can't handle?' he said to Gaff.

Gaff shook his head sorrowfully, as though he really meant it and held out his cane, as though he were showing off a new talent he had acquired. 'Shot in the line of duty. Now its your turn.'

'Oh. No, no.' Deckard said, 'I'm not coming back for any more of that. That,' Deckard indicated Gaff's leg, 'is why I quit,' and he turned back to sit down. 'And I intend to stay quit.'

'You quit Deckard. But you've still got eighteen months reserve service to do. You won't be going to the colonies now - until you complete your reserve. You won't pass the test. Never. You _need_ the citizen-credits to top up your service record.'

'You're going to hold that over me?' Deckard said.

The uniform got hold of him but Deckard shrugged his grip off. 'I can walk. Unaided,' he said with another sardonic twist, glancing down at Gaff. He indicated Gaff's leg to the uniform by a nod of the head, 'Help the _lame_. Help _him_.'

Pointless arguing with these two, he thought. I'll hammer it out with Bryant. Since he is insisting on my company.

They walked away down the street.

'Where are you parked?'

'Up on the Sunrise Tower.'

'Ah, right. I heard you flying in. Didn't take you too long to find me.'

'You're always as Zui-Lee's at this time. It wasn't difficult to find you,' Gaff said. Deckard shrugged, unslung the semi-rigid kit-bag off his shoulder and put the 'ToGo' carton, with his meal, into it.

'This is why I get indigestion,' he said as he licked the chopsticks and tucked them into his jacket's breast pocket.

'No. It's the hot-chilli and the sim-prawns that give you the indigestion,' Gaff said, 'Now, come along.'

They walked half a block to the Sunrise Alliance Building. It was an office block that had been built in the old town. It dated from about 2014 and had somehow survived two wars. It had been used for accomodation since WarFour. Back when it had been built it had the fastest express elevators, and unlike most pre-pre-war technology, they still worked as well as ever. So the roof was used as a heli-port, because it had four cars and each was a fast vertical transport system.

In a minute they were on the roof. They dashed out into the rain and the department heli-craft pilot-driver opened the door for them as they approached and Gaff and Deckard climbed in. The pilot called-in to SF Air-Xchange that he was taking-off and informed them of his destination and course.

He got clearance and the pilot-driver pressed forward on the control column to set the counter-rotating double micro-rotors rose in pitch as they revved-up and the heli-car rose slightly and tilted forward and moved over the lip of the roof. Deckard re-experienced that sense of vertigo he always did when taking-off from a roof-top pad as he looked down the sheer twenty-five storeys to the street. He saw the advertorial-blimp rounding the building below them. He closed his eyes for a few moments until the pilot brought the nose up and they rose into the air-lane. He opened them again and noticed Gaff looking at him quizzically. SF-X chattered away in the cabin, instructing the pilot-driver, 'Climb to 1500 and maintain, lower traffic stream. Join eastward traffic at the Double Star Tower.'

Deckard noticed that the red and blue emergency lights were rotating and casting their lurid-red and cool-blue light downward through the clear roof throughout the heli-car's cab.

'This is a taxi-ride surely? Not an emergency,' asked Deckard.

'You'll see,' said Gaff, and looked away over into the distance towards the old San Francisco city centre. The low light was dimly glinting on the water that had flooded the A-bomb crater that had hit the harbour and wreaked the Bay Bridge.

Deckard looked out the other window as the heli-car turned slowly in its rise from the roof in the direction of his old precinct building. The familiar face of the Japanese woman, made-up in the old-style geisha make-up, on the giant screen set on the Independence Insurance Building, was putting the supplementary nourishment pill in her mouth and smiling before sipping at a glass of milk and saki-substitute.

It was only a few minutes from the Sunrise Building to the precinct building but Deckard took out the meal-carton and started to eat his, now extra soggy rather than extra crisp, dim sum and noodles. But almost immediately after he swallowed the first mouthful he felt his stomach lurch. A secondary vertigo reaction. And anyway, he could see the part reconstructed stumps of the NineEleven Memorial Towers through the mid-day hazy gloom. Right round the west tower and it was a vertical descent onto the precinct roof. He put the carton away again. A perfectly disgusting dinner, utterly ruined, he thought.

The pilot called in to San Francisco Air-Xchange again for permission to approach for descent and received instant clearance while other craft rotated in the stack. It occurred to Deckard that this meeting could be important. The craft pitched forward into the descent and the pilot reliquished control as the 'auto' flew the last hundred feet down on to the low roof of the precinct building.

The precinct building was at the corner of Sunset Avenue and McKinley Lunar Boulevard. It was a partial shell used in one half as a stock exchange for skin, organ, hair and blood-bank trading (the SOHB X-change; hence the expression, "everyone has a SOHB story"). It seemed odd that a trade that could easily be conducted without face-to-face contact, a trade in something so bizarre and sometimes grotesque, had retained the outward appearance of the gregariousness of a trading floor. The other half of the building that fronted onto Sunset was the police precinct. Deckard emerged from the elevator into the large high-ceilinged booking-hall of the precinct. He walked quickly past the open plan grid of desks on the familiar route to where Bryant had his office. Gaff sauntered along behind him.

Bryant's office was in the corner and was an enclosed space made of oakwood and glass. Deckard didn't knock, he barged in through the office door and swung the door vigorously behind him so it slammed loudly, rattling the glass and the venetian blinds.

Bryant looked up and saw it was Deckard. He smiled.

'Come in,' he said, he waited a moment then added, 'and please close the door after you.'

Deckard's expression hardly changed but Bryant could see the small fleeting smile he gave through his scowl. They knew each other well, knew how to annoy each other and where to draw the line. Bryant knew that if there had been a World Series in barging and door slamming then Deckard would be an unbeaten champion. Besides his blade runner record, door banging and scowling were amongst his other talents.

Bryant was large and broad, which was not obvious when he was sat behind his desk. He wore a pale green shirt with what looked like a pattern of newspaper print all over it, and a plain brown tie. Everything old is always new, thought Deckard.

'I knew that if I'd asked you nicely, you'd never come back,' Bryant said, almost apologetically - almost.

Deckard didn't say anything. He maintained his scowl. Bryant gave a slight nod at the chair opposite him. 'Take a seat.'

Deckard looked around the office, all the usual police-work clutter. A police radio quietly chattered and light flickered on Bryant's face from the monitor showing the real-time relays from the personal cam's of the officers out doing their rounds. For a moment he felt like he really missed it. Gaff came into the office. He and Bryant nodded to each other. He stood behind Deckard's shoulder, removed his hat and he stroked a forefinger over his pencil moustache.

Deckard glared at his old boss. 'What am I doing here?'

'I need a Freelancer. Someone from outside the department. There are four skins out there,' said Bryant simply, as though that was all that had to be said.

'Did you lose them?' Deckard asked sarcastically. 'Careless.'

'I need to find them.'

'Your problem, Bryant, not mine. I repeat, why am I here?'

Bryant had been casual, friendly, in his greeting but he needed to get to the point. The smile on his face evaporated.

'Four skins on the street. That is a problem for everybody. And you,' he stabbed a finger at Deckard, 'are a blade runner.'

'Ex-blade runner. I'm retired.'

'There's no such thing,' Bryant said, 'Only Replicants are retired, permanently... you know that more than anyone. Now will you SIT DOWN.'

Deckard relaxed and took the few steps over to the chair Bryant indicated and slumped down onto it. His former boss reached into his desk drawer and drew out a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses. He unscrewed the cap and placed the two glasses on the desk.

'Get this,' he said lifting the bottle, 'This is a genuine blend of synth and 20% real scotch. Don't say I don't spoil you when come a-visiting.'

Deckard snorted. 'And 80% what else?' he thought. He knew that too much industrial alcohol was finding its way into spirits, even the generic sort. Although he didn't usually mind a little 'industrial' in his spirits to keep the price down.

With Deckard now sat down, Gaff, who had remained in the doorway to ensure Deckard didn't walk straight right out on hearing the job, moved over to the couch set against the back wall. An electric fan whirred in the corner. Bryant, having got his compliance immediately launched into the guts of the incident.

'What happened was this, there was a group on a scheduled off-Earth shuttle, from Moon Hub Three. They didn't leave much, killed everyone on board. They were all Tyrell people, and InterSpace Mining management.'

Deckard creased his brow, 'That's strange. Reprisals?' He asked. 'For what happened to the 'Sparticists?'

Bryant shrugged and poured a measure of the scotch in each glass. 'AX-Orbital Traffic Control couldn't get a verbal call-sign from them beyond the auto-detect. They set fire to shuttle and came down using the emergency pod, just left the shell of the shuttle floating around in orbit. The emergency pod was found in the desert,' Bryant gave a discreet nod in the direction of the south-east to what had once been known as the badlands, 'At one of the illegal entry points, a smuggling port. Who knows where they are? But it wouldn't take a genius to work out where they're likely to head for, and they have.'

Deckard's expression had shifted from a scowl to neutral. Imagining possible scenarios. He reached forward and picked one of the glasses off the desk and said, 'That's got to be... awkward - for you. I know I would be embarrassed.'

'It's nothing of the sort, and you know why. No one will know they've ever been here.' Bryant's tone hardened again. 'You will trace them and airbrush them out, as though they had never been here.'

'Back to square one,' said Deckard. 'I'm not in your employ anymore. Why don't you give the job to Don Holden? Deckard looked around from where he sat, out to the open-plan office. 'Where is he, anyway?'

Bryant looked beyond Deckard's shoulder at Gaff, still sat against the back wall.

'I assigned it to him,' Bryant said, he shifted the tone of voice back to the casual tone reserved for grim news, 'He's now in hospital. He's still breathing, but only just, and only so long as those cables and tubes are in place. That's because of the big holes one of these skins made in his lungs. Holden's good. But we'll not see him blade running again, not after this. He'll he assigned a quiet desk job. It's getting real bad out there Deck's. Never seems to get better. I'm running out of blade running options. And they keep coming. We've halted others before they get to Tyrell, but these managed to get another one inside.' He shifted his tone again somewhere between encouragement and ingratiating, 'This is a job that needs your certain eye, your certain aim, and your certain skill.'

'And I'm certain I don't need any more of this,' said Deckard, 'I've done my stint. And it's not my problem any more.' He ran his finger around the glass, and licked the very last of the whiskey off his finger, then set the glass back down on the desk top and got up out of the chair, 'Like I said, I don't work here any more.' He turned towards the door.

Bryant's tone of voice hardened again, 'Wait. If you're not on the citizen-service roll, you're nobody. You know that.'

'I'm getting by,' Deckard said over his shoulder, as he rattled the door handle. 'And its easier on the nerves than any of this.'

'It can be made especially hard for you.'

Deckard stopped. He turned slowly round and faced Bryant again. 'You're not going to give me a choice, is that it?'

'That's right. No choice, Choice went out with the last war, I'm surprised you hadn't heard!' Bryant confirmed. 'Let me show you something.' He tapped on his remote and turned a screen round toward Deckard.

The interview that Holden had conducted with Leon Polokov came on screen. It was a split-screen view. One part showed Polokov's retinal response, one showed the reading from the 'empathic response' graphic and another view was from Holden's personal cam' view, showing Polokov full face.

'We can miss the first half,' Bryant said as he sped it forward. 'It's the last part that's important.'

Deckard heard the voice of Holden giving a text book rendition of the questions, keeping the sentences short, terse and to the point. Then, adding a little inflection to his voice. He heard the reply, agitation showing in the subjects voice. The testing apparatus gave out a steady beeping sound.

'I'll move it forward a bit more,' Bryant said. He hit the button and let the recording speed by. He stopped it and ran it back. He started it running again. Dave Holden's disembodied voice was explaining something to the subject. '...Since you ask, the questions are devised by others. I just read them, and read the response gauges...'

Deckard reflected on the V-K Test. A series of various, carefully constructed, sets of questions utilising a flexible modular system designed for the practised interviewer to cross-refer - to get to a conclusion.

Bryant said, 'Now watch this. Here we are. We got the company's overhead security camera. Watch closely.' The recording showed the subject of the test move his arm swiftly and shoot Holden under the table. His swivel chair span round at the impact and he slumped against the back wall. The man stood up and moved to stand over Holden. He fired three more times. The impacts blasted Holden off the chair and he lay slumped, seemingly lifeless, against the wall. The subject pressed the gun back down into his waistband, and pulled his paper overalls up to conceal it.

'Did I pass your test?' he asked sardonically as he turned away and left the room at a fast walking pace.

As the archive ran on, it showed office workers come into the office sometime after the gunshots. The screen was now blank except for a view in the retinal response segment, which showed the back wall of the cubicle, the 'empathic response' graphic was a straight line since Polokov had ripped the electrode pads off, and the other segment, showing the view from Holden's personal button cam', which showed a piece of carpet and skirting board. After a few minutes it also showed the shoes of the office workers and then their faces briefly as they had turned Don Holden over onto his back and then back onto his side. There was nothing to see, only the sounds of their voices.

\- 'What happened?

\- 'It was Leon Polokov.'

\- 'Who's that?'

\- 'He's new here.'

\- 'Not another one. _Again_?'

\- 'They say there are hardly any here, so how come there are so many shootings like this? They can't all be angry ex-employees. Besides Polokov had just started working here. Never been employed by the firm before.'

\- 'How do you know it was him?'

\- 'He was called in, he'd only been in there a few minutes when there were shots. Then he came out. Not running, but moving fast'

\- '... routine testing ...'

\- 'Why'd he do it?'

\- 'Don't turn him on his back!'

\- 'I thought you were meant to.'

\- 'Never move a victim until the medic's arrive.'

\- 'But he's bleeding, we've got to do something to stop the bleeding.'

\- 'That's what lesion colagulent is for. There's some in that box over there. Go and get it...'

\- 'Stop crying and start helping!'

The voices continued. At least one of them continually sobbing. Then, eventually, voices were heard saying, 'How do you switch this thing off.' - 'Leave it. Its not important.' - then another voice said, 'I think it's this button here, isn't it?'

The screen went blank and silent.

'I guess Don Holden's natural charm didn't work on this occasion,' Deckard observed mordantly.

'A man's in hospital, Deckard,' Bryant said as the aftermath of the shooting ran onward from the CCTV pic-cap.

'Yeah.'

Bryant turned down the sound and leant across the desk toward Deckard and gave him more detail. 'Before this latest incident at Tyrell we only know for certain of those that were killed on the off-Earth shuttle. It was a scheduled flight, not a charter. That's all we can be certain of, so far. There were six of them in the escape group that arrived here, this time. But they may have met up with others. We don't know. Two of them were the earlier generation. The shooting of Holden might've been this group's first shooting on-Earth. We don't know that either. We're still trying to ascertain their movements since they arrived. What we do know is that there was an attempt to enter The Corporation's premises a few nights back.

'Yeah,' said Deckard., 'I've been reading about it. They're like salmon going back to their spawning grounds!'

'Or homing pigeons. Something's drawing them back. I knew you're weren't really out of bladerunning, Decks. I shouldn't have had to twist your arm.'

'Reading about it isn't the same as wanting to do anything about it.' Deckard said, 'You ARE twisting my arm.'

'Someone has to. Back to business. Two of them were done to a crisp - and I mean fried, you should've seen them - by the electrical security field they use up there, to stop precisely this sort of break-in. The Reps couldn't have known that it had been installed since the last incident. Older models, they weren't insulated against it. They could have been used by the later generation as decoys. The more like us they make these things look, the more unlike us they get, they're getting close to being indestructable. By the time we got there, as you'd expect, they were long gone. Tyrell have created these newer models, NeXus-Six's...'

'Huh? NeXus-Six's? I thought Tyrell were only allowed to produce their earlier models since the whole debacle with...'

'Exactly. But when have god-like Corporations the size of Tyrell been bound by mere human law? ...they're the ones that got away.'

Bryant shut off his monitor screen, now that the after-events of Holden's shooting had finished. He leaned closer toward Deckard, 'Anyway, I sent Holden up there to apply the Voight-Kampff on the latest in-take of staff, since it seems likely they would try and infiltrate again. He found one. More correctly, it got him.'

'Or a very angry worker,' added Deckard.

'No. We know it was _him_ ,' Bryant said indicating the screen, as an image came up on it. 'Leon Polokov, works as an ammunition loader on one of Tyrell's defence craft. An Intergalactic...'

Deckard snorted and smiled, 'Intergalactic! They don't even get to the edge of the solar system...'

'Yeah. I know. That's marketing for you. It's a combat auxiliary, obviously. Able to lift and carry 400 pound loads, twenty four hours a day. Don didn't stand a chance. He's beyond hurting, you've got to kill it.'

'You can't hurt him? Not even if you comment on his terrible hair?' Deckard said sarcastically; then he took the remote out of Bryant's hand and ran the recording back. He freeze-framed the image of Leon Polokov, with his retinal image and 'empathic response' graphic, at the moment before shooting.

'Did Don get a reading on him? On its empathic response.'

'He didn't get that far,' said Bryant, 'as you saw. Or, at least, he is in no fit state to tell us, if he did. I'm not expecting him to remember anything about what happened.'

'I'd like to take the Voight-Kampff data so I can conduct my own analysis.'

'Sure you can. There's something else...' Bryant indicated to Derkard that he wanted to beam information over to him. 'This is the information we got from off-World. They told us about the escapees, belatedly. If they had told us earlier perhaps the shootings could have been prevented. Possible culpability, but that'll be for the D.A. to decide. The Replicants have either laid very low until this move on Tyrell Corp or they've blended seamlessly.'

'Without analysing its empathic response my gut says this is human. A pissed-off worker. Gone 'postal'.'

'But he'd only been there a few days. Fits perfectly with his recent arrival.'

'But Tyrell Corp is always hiring, the turnover is so high that they must take on new workers all the time.'

'Holden passed the first one he interviewed. Then came Polokov.'

Deckard looked up from the screen, a puzzled expression swept across his face for a moment. 'I've been reading about these shootings. Does anyone know why they're coming to Earth. That is next-door to unknown for skins to do that. No one seems to be asking that question, because no one knows - other than the rumours - that the Replicants are here. Think of it from a Replicants point-of-view. What has the dangers of coming to Earth, and all these attempts to work their way inside Tyrell Corporation got to offer, that a nice quiet life on a Jovian moon base couldn't beat?'

'I just know that they've been doing it a lot. Every time some of them get to Earth they head, sooner, rather than later for Tyrell. Why they're doing it, is something for you to discover on behalf of the Department, if you can. We _need_ the intelligence. It'd be better if you could get in with them somehow.'

Deckard looked away from the screen momentarily, 'I'm here under duress. That's why I'm here.'

'Tyrell Corp have been unusually helpful. Let me show you this.' Bryant started to move his hands around on the screen, 'This is what we have on the others. Take a good look at these.'

A head appeared on-screen and rotated around 360 degrees on the vertical axis. It was a large head without hair, with a broad forehead, dark brown eyes and strong jawline. There was a black block over the bottom of the screen.

'What am I looking at now?' Deckard asked.

'I'm going to show you the templates of each of the other escapees. Tyrell have given us these. They're redacted, hence the block of black at the bottom of the screen. This is the first.

'This is the appearance of the base models as they come off the line, or whatever it is Tyrell do. This is the foundation upon which all the varients will be based.'

'So they're not producing them at the moment?'

'Not so far. So they say. They say that the escapee's are pre-production test models.'

'Oh yeah? 'If _these_ weren't supposed to be produced. How many others were produced too? None were supposed to be being made.' Deckard stopped and asked, referring to the spinning head on the screen, 'And the Corporation that never does more than the bare minimum when dealing with any of the authorities, freely furnished you with these images?' Deckard asked.

'That's right. Eldon Tyrell himself.'

'Eldon Tyrell!' Deckard exclaimed and gave a little whistle under his breath. 'God Almighty. In person?'

'Not in person. No one knows if he really exists,' Bryant said sardonically, 'A conference call was set-up, from above, the Mayor's office. We did speak, briefly, on the VOICe system. Then he passed me onto his assistant. It was all on his direct authority.'

'And yet they're usually so reluctant to offer any information if they can help it.'

Bryant nodded at the head spinning around on the screen, 'This model here is a sub-model N7MAA2192-3167. Made for combat as it's primary. Optimised for self-directed goal-orientated tasks... '

'Made for combat? They're not supposed to be...'

'That's the way it is, Decks,' Bryant shot him a resigned expression, 'when you're bigger than god, this is what you do. We have been told that this one has been assigned the I.D. of Roy Batty. Blond hair, blue eyes...'

'This has grey eyes.'

'It's the foundation of the Type. They don't look very different to the Zeit or earlier NeXus generations on-screen. But we're told that the difference is obvious up-close. The differences are not just in the appearance but in the touch, and how they interact. I'll come back to that. But this one here, we've been told it is blue-eyed, but he could have a Fu Manchu moustache for all I know.'

'Not much help. He could wear contacts or retinal implants in any colour or pattern,' observed Deckard.

'Unlike Polokov, this one has a distinctive appearance.'

'You wouldn't miss this one in a crowd. Do you have a chassis image?'

'They didn't let us have that. They did say that the bodywork can be anywhere between 6 feet and 6 feet 6 inches. Body shape and build is from type B3 to A1. This looks like it'd be the leader,' Bryant said and gave a half smile.

'That figures,' said Deckard.

'Now for the others,' Bryant said as he moved his finger across the screen. Another head appeared and started to spin on the screen. 'This is sub-model N7FAB72327. The I.D. is Zhora. No second name given here. Female. Though it is difficult to tell with these facial features. Possibly this one is used with either male or female chassis. One of an assassin kick-kill squad. Nothing to look at here. But I've seen an image of the sub-model's. As man-ish as this template looks, with the right hair and make-up done in various ways it's obviously intended to be seductive. You've heard of beauty and the beast. This one is both.'

Deckard leaned back from looking at the screen and said, 'Next.' Bryant slid a finger across the screen. Another spinning, floating head. This one, in its base template mode was much more feminine in its appearance. High, defined cheekbones, lean jawline and chin, full lips and wide mouth.

'These are all NeXus-Six's. This one is sub-model N7FAB72527. A Pleasure model. Believe it or not this a male/female as well, depending on secondary characteristics that are added. Civilian flights and especialy on the long duration journeys and remote stations.' Deckard leaned in again, to look closely.

'I'd like a screenshot of each of these anyway. Side and front, in the old-style way, and three-quarters from back and front. I'll need to show them around. The usual old-style way.'

'Sure. I'll get them to you,' Bryant said. 'There's something you need to know about these very latest NeXus, that have come in since you last worked for us. They now emulate our behaviour in every detail. That's right. It aids the empathic acceptance by us...'

'And easier to get close to, and kill?' interrupted Deckard. 'I mean, kill the selected target.'

'Must be. Probably. I guess you could say that but I can't, not in my position,' Briar said, indicating his office. 'I'm no longer allowed to express a professional judgement, it seems. ' Bryant said. 'This is Tyrell Corp's latest big idea. These are able copy humans in everything; everything that is except emotions. A built-in limitation. They're designed to learn from interaction, just as a child learns. I've been informed, in confidence, that the designer's can't even be certain that, after a few years of constant interaction, they won't develop an emotional response as well. Anything you can feel, they'll be able to feel too.'

'Deckard gave a low whistle.

'Everything,' emphasised Bryant. 'Far, hate, envy, anger, jealousy, the lot. Possibly, even love. Given enough time. Because of this the I.R.C. has required them to have a built-in fail-safe.'

'And that is, what?'

'They must have a life limit of four years.'

'Four years,' Deckard repeated.

'Uh-huh,' Bryant confirmed.

'Little wonder they're pissed off,' Deckard said. 'How will Voight-Kampff work on a model that learns emotions. If I can't administer the test, why am I here?' Deckard spread his arms wide, indicating the precinct building.

'This a hunt-and-kill mission.'

'But I need to know its a Replicant, not a human lookalike.'

'Honest, simple police work. That will be the real test you'll be administering this time. The old way. If you can't be sure of your ID, don't shoot!'

'Hunt-and-kill AND don't shoot. Any other helpful advice?'

Bryant gave a half smile. 'That's about it, Decks.'

A heli-craft's headlights, flying low - too low - shone its bright beams of light through the window of Bryant's office, as it rounded a corner. Bryant squinted and shielded his eyes.

'Seems odd, don't it?' he said. 'I've been told that they're designed that way, that is the fail-safe, so that they don't develop real emotional responses. So they will still be detectable to the test. Those Tyrell people are real helpful like that. Always thinking of us at the SFPD, and you bladerunner's especially.' Bryant raised a sceptical eyebrow as Deckard looked at him, 'You believe it of you want to.'

'If they're so new, where am I going to get a test subject to calibrate the test on the new models?' Deckard asked. Bryant looked down momentarily and looked at Deckard again. 'There is a NeXus-Six at Tyrell's. I want you to get out there and apply the Test. Who knows, we might be lucky and still get a reading on it. At least this one will be 'tame', it won't be able to shoot you.'

'But what if the test doesn't...?' Deckard let his question peter out.

Bryant didn't answer, his eyes slid away from Deckard's. Deckard noted the non-response and answered his own question. If the test doesn't work, then we will _all_ have a big problem, and then we'll have to get used to Replicant's all over the place, replacing _us_ , all of us. Eventually.


End file.
